


Dornentanz - Dance of Thorns

by NoxArkana



Series: Die Hölle Muss Warten [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Courting Rituals, Gore, M/M, Mutilation, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unconventional courtship, unconventional romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 15:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16956498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoxArkana/pseuds/NoxArkana
Summary: When they began to dance with her, all those years ago, it wasn't to any tune they knew.





	Dornentanz - Dance of Thorns

_Schritt für Schritt-_  
_Einz, zwei, drei, vier_  
_Tanz mit mir_  
_Schau nicht zurück_

. . .

 

 

  It begins, of all ways, with the spiders.  
  Sauron has been vanquished for many years now, but the demise of the Dark Lord hadn’t been enough to chase the Ungoliants from their silk dwellings in the forests of Eryn Lasgalen. Scouts and armed guards still roam their depths, sent by the Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion, but for every creature they slay, ten seem to take its place: and so the elves return with tales of destroyed nests and dead monsters, sometimes with wounds and bites to prove their story true.  
  But today -today they are sure their Kings will not believe their words. How could they, when both the scouts and Prince Legolas himself can’t believe their own eyes?  
  Legolas is the one who offers to give his father the news. He knows Thranduil would never accuse him of lying, and in the presence of Loki Liesmith, so used to uncovering deceptions, he is sure his words will ring true.  
  So, he enters the throne room. Thranduil gazes upon him with fondness, abandoning his councillors to join his son, and when Loki, too, is with them, Legolas speaks.

 

*

 

  Legolas had been right: Thranduil struggles to believe even when the proof of the Prince’s words lies in front of his eyes. Loki stands at his side, just as amazed, his green eyes sparkling with fascination.  
  «Whoever made this used magic to move the carcass and arrange it this way,» Loki says with certainty. «I feel the touch of it all over the animal.»  
  Thranduil nods at him in gratitude and turns his head towards the spider again.  
  It is, in its own way, breathtaking. It sits on its hind legs, body bent and broken to fit the position, its front limbs lifted and tied to the branches of the trees above so that the sharp claws at the end of the thin legs hover above the ground, more or less at eye level. A piece of black cloth is wrapped around its eyes, neatly tied beneath the arrow that killed it. In its raised limbs it holds a book and a sword, respectively on the right and on the left, and on its broken chest, carved with precision and care, are the words ‘KNOWLEDGE IS POWER’.  
  It is like nothing Thranduil has ever seen before and it’s beautiful.  
  Loki’s hand is in his before he can move, and he turns towards the sorcerer. Loki is looking at him with a gleam in his eyes, green like absinthe and luminous like emeralds. Thranduil feels the magic envelop him, gentle like a lover’s embrace, and Loki lets him go.  
  It’s a simple spell, meant to protect him from any harm that might come from touching the dead beast, but when they approach, nothing happens. The spider stays dead and even when they move to grab the objects left in its limp hold, nothing moves to prevent them from doing so.  
  The sword is a work of fine elven craftsmanship, imbued with enchantments and elven runes to protect its user. The book -a collection of spells that would make an orc shudder in fear- comes from the dark libraries of Mordor.  
  «What are these, _elskan_?» whispers Loki, weighing the ancient tome in his hands, already absorbed in the spells it contains.  
  Thranduil does not answer.

*

 

  The sculpture raises whispers and rumours and the Kings give chase, but the person who left the spider gave no clues and neither Thranduil nor Loki have any idea where to look for them. They increase the security of the palace and the number of guards that follow them when they go out in the forest, as well as the private guards of Prince Legolas and Loki’s children. They pay attention to every murmur, every whisper, but nothing gives them the slightest hint and after three months, the trail goes cold.  
  Loki spends those three months trying to track down the source of magic that had moved the spider. The book from Mordor has proven useful in more than one occasion and he’s commented more than once on the extraordinary spells in it, but as brilliant as they are, none of them helps him find their culprit.  
  After, he occupies himself and Thranduil with learning the new magic that had been brought to him and with devising counter-spells that can annihilate the effects of those in the book. It turns out that the spells cannot touch whomever it is that carries the spider’s sword, so Loki insists that Thranduil keep it, and the Elvenking does, albeit reluctantly. At night, when the forest is quiet and still, they allow murmured conjectures to find their way into their conversations, even though they are drowned out by sounds of love and adoration most of the time.  
  The number of Ungoliants in the forest dwindles. They notice this long before finding the orc.

 

*

 

  The beast lies along the route the two Kings take to reach the hot springs. It’s a road they know well, a walk they go for without guards nor soldiers following them. Loki smells the magic long before they find its source.  
  They recognise its species, but only because of the black blood that has stained the cloth folded beneath it. Thranduil takes a moment to appreciate the consideration -the orc’s blood did not sully the earth, infecting it with its foul stench. He still recoils slightly upon seeing what had been made of the beast.  
  Loki thinks every single bone the orc had had in its body must have been broken to reduce it to this. The thighs, slashed open with surgical precision, are bent up and backwards so that the flesh could be wrapped around what had once been the shoulders, the soft tissue sewn around the orc’s back. The shins point skywards, grotesque renditions of the arteries and veins sprouting from a human heart. The arms –if the creature still has them- must be hidden behind the carefully sewn flesh of its legs, for they are not visible. There is no head; in its place is only a severed stump.  
  There are no objects around the corpse, this time. There’s only the piece of fabric that protected the soil and Thranduil recognises it as the orc’s own clothes. It is unsettling, eerie in its fundamental simplicity: the very organ that commands sentiment and emotion, carved out of the filth of this world.  
  Loki and Thranduil have lived many years and they are not unintelligent. They both come to the same conclusion, almost at the same time.  
  «Love can sprout from the lowest of creatures,» Loki murmurs, «and it is a feeling that is rotten to the core.»  
  «Yet they seek it, they thirst for it, in the secret ways that unrequited feelings allow them» Thranduil breathes. «But why such a display, I wonder…»  
  The God of Chaos shakes his head, circling the heart with his feline steps. It isn’t perfect, there are a lot of missing details, but that does not take anything from the feeling that birthed it. He can feel it, like the taste of a fine wine spreading on his tongue, intoxicating and burning in his throat. He finds himself smiling faintly as Thranduil raises his head to look at him.  
  «Gifts» the elf murmurs. <<Courting gifts.»  
  «Yes.»  
  « _Valar_.»

 

*

 

  Their mysterious admirer keeps the objects of their affections interested during the following year. After the first two sculptures, more trinkets come, sometimes just as macabre, sometimes much less, always filled to the brim with scorching sentiment, overflowing with it. Thranduil feels it deeply in his chest, ribs tightening each time a new gift appears, and Loki doesn’t even try to hide his curiosity and fascination. He studies each gift as one might study a painting, learning its nuances, its hues, its vibes in their entirety, sharing excited whispers with the Elvenking every time he finds something new. It has been a long time since Thranduil last saw him this full of energy and the elf must admit that he himself is feeling almost giddy, thrilled with the prospect of a chase that is purely a battle of intelligences -minds that want to savour the months before they finally meet in person for the first time. Sweet torture, subtle and light, like the touch of a butterfly’s wings on Thranduil’s lips. His and Loki’s ways to try and catch their admirer become ever more elaborate, while the sculptures become more intricate, pregnant with meanings and significance, the mysterious person getting bolder and bolder, joyous laughter echoing around them every time they find a new trinket.  
  It is sick and twisted and both kings enjoy every second of it. Thranduil wonders what this makes of them.

 

*

 

  The last sculpture looks as if it is only Loki’s. Thranduil sees it in his eyes as soon as they find it.  
  He has no idea who the people are; he only knows that they are dwarves -the top of their heads barely reach his hip- and that they must have done something unspeakable for Loki to blanch like this. The god does not try to approach them, even if he can clearly see that they’re still alive, nor does he allow Thranduil to do so: he grabs the elf’s hand in a vice-like grip, stopping him from taking another step.  
  Thranduil studies their mutilated faces with cold ruthless eyes. At his side, Loki says nothing.  
  «They haven’t been here for long» Thranduil murmurs. Loki only nods, his gaze growing colder and stonier the more time passes. The elf holds him delicately until he stops shaking.  
  «I had hoped I’d seen the last of you,» the god whispers, inching closer to the dwarves, «but this… I must admit, _this is_ _so much better_ …»  
  They only moan behind the bleeding mess of their sewn lips, delirious with pain and probably half-insane already. The thread that their admirer has used is maroon with dried blood, the soft flesh of their lips pierced with careful precision in even, regular punctures that have already scabbed over. Lovingly slipped through the central puncture in the blond dwarf’s lips is the sewing needle. Tied to its eye is a little piece of scroll.  
  Loki looks pleased and about to be sick when he reads it.

 

 _I’ve always believed that a good gift is  one that’s beautiful on the outside, too._  
_For my snake, the chest._  
_For my stag, that which is inside._

  
  Loki turns towards Brokk and Eitri, looks at their broken forms, the sewn lips, the terrified eyes, and spots the clean stitches holding their stomachs closed. He wordlessly hands the scroll to Thranduil, drinking in the sight of the ones who’d mutilated him, all those years ago: not so brave now that they’ve been subjected to the same fate, but he does not mock them like they did when they sewed his mouth shut. He makes sure they see his soft smile, the fondness with which he gazes upon their admirer’s work.  
  Thranduil steps closer, looks at the dwarves with something that Loki can only describe as icy hatred, an emotion strong enough to make the earth quake. When the elf sees the stitches on their bellies, it is only with pleasure that he opens them up –slowly, with care, savouring the moment. Loki basks in every muffled, tortured scream that cannot leave their teeth.  
  From each of them spill three flowers, three red roses, and three white ones.

 

*

 

  The last sculpture comes without fanfare. They orchestrate it carefully and then leave it where they found the spider.  
  It is intricate and heartbreakingly beautiful, Thranduil thinks, and Loki takes his gently throbbing hand in his. He’d offered to perform a healing spell on the light scratches the thorns left on his palms, but the elf had refused, confessing in hushed tones of how the gentle pain was strangely welcome. They had shared a kiss, deep and tender and sweet beneath the pale moon.  
  Their admirer does not disappoint.  
  The two kings catch them as they are admiring the sculpture, a slender silhouette in the dark. They reach out with a bony hand, touching the thorny branches with reverence, admiring with adoration the bleeding heart within. The scent of the roses permeates the air, the flowers glowing in the eerie light of the moon like white and red candle flames.  
  Thranduil and Loki step forward, into the pool of moonlight that bathes the figure. They hear a soft gasp as the figure whips around, and when they take in her features, it is with surprise and fascination, not horror.  
  She grins, huge red eyes glittering in the dark.  
  «Your minds are even more beautiful than your bodies.»  
  «What is your name, _pen-neth_?»  
  «Nox… Nox Seirdorn.»

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

  Authoress’ note:  
  Thank you to all who left kudos and bookmarked my previous story. I love you!  
  I do not own -in any shape or form- the characters featured in this story, nor the lyrics of the song at the beginning of the chapter. I only own my OC and the plot.  
  Kudos and comments feed my always-starving muse.  
  
  
_pen-neth_ : young one


End file.
